In the heart of the twisted labyrinth, where the moonlight falters and fades to distant histories, there stands a remarkable silhouette. It divides truth from the already whispered lies, forming tales with ink derived from shadow. As each spoke the mismatched choruses, echoes slipped through fingers like sand—remnants of once architectured voices.
Within the silence, beneath candle-stub shadows, we laid our quill-borne prayers, forgotten hymns meant for brass angels with wings draped in cobwebs. The cathedral floor, ablaze with those dark offerings, echoed not our whispers but the sigh of unending passage.
The charges of fate bind enemies familiar yet unknown, their waning glow combines with the sighs of these specters: tales already forgotten before they were ever told. A serenade to the hollow turned once beneath saturnine skies, their orchestration was a prelude to our spectral destiny.
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